


Terrible Two

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Crack, Do not repost, Don't copy to another site, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Reincarnation, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-19 04:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20324995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: In which Desmond and Clay are reborn as Ezio's bastard twins in Florence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> proofread by nimadge (who is probably getting tired of my nonsense by now)
> 
> Warning would-be-child-predator (who gets Accident-ed) and mention of a child bride (whose husband get's deservedly assassinated) and probably other things. Nothing actually happens but there are allusions to things.  
Background music [The Dead South - In Hell I'll Be In Good Company](https://youtu.be/B9FzVhw8_bY)  
-

They were given names by their mother before her death, but by the time they're three no one remembers – between themselves they only use their original names, and that eventually spreads to everyone else around them, so, even if there are people who know what their late mother called them, it doesn't really matter. Clay is Clay and Desmond is Desmond. At some point they – or probably Clay – decide that they refuse to answer to any other names.

They were born in Florence in the year 1477, in a brothel, naturally – though not in La Rosa Colta, sadly, that would be too convenient. But it's a brothel, in Florence, so it's not hard to draw conclusions.

"Ezio?" Clay more suggests than asks.

"Yeah, maybeh," Desmond agrees. "Maybe the Eye, too. Mighda been somthin' I did."

"You softy."

"You're welcome," Desmond answers with great dignity. They're two at the time – and counting back from their current age to estimated time of conception, Ezio was probably sixteen, seventeen years old at the time it happened. So, around twenty now. So…

"Not here," Clay summaries as they sit on the second floor of the mezzanine of the brothel, watching the courtesans seduce men out of their money below.

Desmond hangs his feet through the gaps in the railing, kicking them and humming with agreement. Ezio would be living in Monteriggioni – or he'd be in Venice. One or the other. "What're we gon do?"

Clay gives him a look. "Learn to speak properly to start with."

Desmond pouts at him. "I talk fine," he mutters, though he doesn't. Stupid baby vocal cords.

Clay snorts and looks away. "We grow, we plan, we fuck Juno's plan up."

Desmond considers that, leaning his cheek on the railing. "Yeah okay," he says then. "Thassa plan."

"Unless we die before then from a million diseases due to horrible hygiene, lack of sanitation and lack of vaccinations and antibiotics in general," Clay mutters. "Stay away from rusty nails, Seventeen."

Desmond smiles at him, with all the charm of a skinny two year old. "Luv u too, Sisteen."

Clay scoffs, disgusted.

* * *

They were born as fraternal twins. Clay had a tuft of blond hair at birth and his skin was a shade paler than Desmond's – who according to the Madame was born with dark eyes, like the _devil_. For the first few years of their lives, the courtesans adore pale blond blue-eyed Clay, favouring him over darker-toned Desmond. That is, until they actually get to know him.

Clay doesn't even pretend to be a normal child – nor does he dumb himself down for anyone. It earns him the ire of the courtesans and customers both more than once – and curiously, punishment does nothing but make him do much worse. In comparison, Desmond is an agreeable, amiable angel, always so nice, never making trouble.

"You sycophant," Clay accuses, nursing his backside after another punishment for back talking

"Being nice is a skill," Desmond says, looking at him worriedly. "One you can learn. Are you alright?"

"My ass hurts, so no, I'm not alright. And all I did was correct that pompous asshat on geography. Who the hell thinks there are polar bears in Sweden?"

"Who knows, there might be," Desmond comments. "It doesn't matter if he was right or wrong – you made him look stupid in front of a pretty lady – of course he got mad."

"Well it was his own fault for being stupid."

"You're being stupid, tempting fate."

Honestly Clay seems to weirdly enjoy it – as some sort of masochistic call for attention maybe, and making up for all the time he couldn't mess with people, being dead. Mostly he gets off easy, being so young and outwardly adorable – but of course, eventually someone goes too far.

They're six. While Desmond looks a bit like a goblin, his limbs growing longer than is aesthetically advisable, Clay looks like a literal damn angel, a cherub, with a mane of blond curls and big blue eyes – he looks like a renaissance painting, for god's sake. And with his attitude, he's hard to miss. 

"Quite the mouth you have on you, boy. Didn't your father teach you any manners?" one of the patrons demands, after Clay had made himself seen and heard. 

"Don't have a father," Clay says, primly, obviously goading the guy. "Or a mother, for that matter – and _yes_, I am a bastard, too."

"And clearly in need of a man's influence, running so wild," the guy says, narrowing his eyes, obviously considering and then looking to the courtesan he was talking with. "I could take the lad in hand, and – discipline him."

The courtesan blinks, and demurs with, "Oh, I don't know, he usually settles down after a good spanking."

"And then gets right up to his old tricks, no? Obviously good spanking isn't enough – he needs to be shown his place properly," the patron says, and then, the worst thing he could say, "I can pay _handsomely_ for it."

Desmond, who is playing on the second floor with a toy ball, narrows his eyes at that, and for all his bravado and daring, Clay isn't dumb. He knows he's still small – too small. He turns and runs, just _barely_ in time to keep himself from being grabbed. The patron of course follows him, thundering up the stairs with determination and an evil gleam in his eyes.

Desmond considers the steps, the patron, and then the ball in his hand. Clay makes his way to the second floor, his eyes wide, and Desmond calculatingly drops the ball, sending it rolling.

The patron steps on it, stumbles back and goes head over heels down the stairs – breaking his neck on his second impact.

"Tone it down," Desmond mutters later, after the guard has been in and the whole thing has been proclaimed a terrible accident. "You're too pretty to be making this much trouble."

Clay sighs, uncomfortable. "Just wait until puberty. I'll put on weight, my face will explode, and I'll sweat like a pig, it'll be great and no one will want to get anywhere near me."

Desmond snorts. "Dumbass. Just be more careful."

Clay hums. "Might be time to start putting our plan into action," he admits. "Any longer here, and things will get… difficult."

Desmond considers the brothel. It's probably not the worst place to grow up in – at least here they have a roof over the heads and are fed… but it's definitely not the best place either. And if they _stay_ here, things would get difficult eventually. Clay is already pegged for prostitution for how pretty he is. It's not a good situation, so yeah, leaving could be an idea. But on the other hand...

"We're six year old bastard orphans," Desmond reminds him.

"We're also really, really good," Clay says and looks at him. "I mean, you can already kill people with nothing more than a toy ball, so… should be alright."

Desmond sighs. "Not sure the ability to commit successful murder is relative to our ability to survive by ourselves in the 15th century Florence."

"Shows how little you know."

* * *

The plan is this – to become apprentices as soon as possible, and for as good occupations as possible. Clay would prefer engineering, or in a pinch art, Desmond is more loose and wouldn't really care if he got nothing at all. Money and background is an issue, though – the fact that they don't have either. Yet.

"We could try for Monteriggioni," Desmond comments, a little wistfully. "See Ezio. That would give us a background."

"As the bastards of a notorious murderer," Clay snorts. "And how are we even going to prove it? Our mom's dead, if she even knew who our father was, it doesn't seem like she told anyone. There's no proof."

"Aside from Eagle Vision," Desmond says. "Pretty sure even Ezio knows it's hereditary."

Clay looks at him flatly. "You have Eagle Vision?"

"You don't yet?"

"What do you mean, _yet_? I never had it!"

They look at each other blankly. "But – the writing?" Desmond says then, confused.

"Yes, the writing, Seventeen, which I made in my own blood – I didn't exactly need Eagle Vision to make it," Clay says and looks him up and down while Desmond hangs his head, guiltily. "You have Eagle Vision, huh? That changes things."

"… so we will go to Monteriggioni?"

"Well, no," Clay says, calculatingly. "But we can do other things. Or you can, and I will benefit from them."

Desmond presses his lips together, giving him a look. "Like what?"

"Like, for example, treasure hunting, breaking and entering, avoiding guards," Clay says, obviously already planning great things. "Killing people who deserve it and stealing their valuables… That sort of thing."

Desmond sighs. "I regret everything."

* * *

Desmond does his first proper Brotherhood Level Assassination when he's seven. He kills a merchant who has some old ties to the Templars – used to be a weapons supplier. The guy also had some tastes and inclinations which, really, alone would've been enough to sign the guy's death warrant.

"I'm sorry, I can't help you back to your own country," Desmond says apologetically to the shocked woman, a girl really, pretty sure she trafficked into Florence against her will to be the merchant's not so happy bride. "But here, I'll give you some of his money, maybe you can figure out a way? Um, go to La Rosa Colta, ask for Paola – she might be able to help you."

The woman is still a bit shell shocked when he ushers her off, but it's really the best Desmond can do for her – it's not like a seven year old has enough clout to set people up in better lives.

Not yet anyway.

"Should be enough to bribe my way into an apprenticeship," Clay muses, considering the funds Desmond brings back to him – hiding them from the courtesans, obviously. "I wouldn't mind getting more."

"You could do some work yourself, too," Desmond comments. "You'd make a killing pickpocketing, while you're still pretty enough that people think you're all good and nice."

"You _are_ all good and nice, and it doesn't seem to be making much of a difference," Clay snorts and looks at him. "To be honest, never took to the pickpocketing. Not really a skill they teach in the future, and I didn't get a handy dandy Animus training like some."

Desmond narrows his eyes. "Maybe a time you learn, then. You are an Assassin, after all. Should have the skills of one."

The utterly inconvenienced look Clay gives him sets his mind – he's going to teach the guy out of pure damn spite.

* * *

With some forged letters from a would be sick father – written masterfully by Clay – and funds accumulated mostly by Desmond, they work Clay into an apprenticeship. Though engineer had ended up being a bit too difficult, there was a – rather shitty, in Desmond's opinion – blacksmith, who took the money and the sob story from the letter, and took Clay in.

"It'll do for a start," Clay decides. "Will give me experience in blacksmithing and a background."

"So as long as you don't get thrown out," Desmond says. "Apprenticeships are slow – you're going to be doing chores for most of the first two years."

"Yeah, we'll see about that," Clay says, pulls himself up to his full height – which isn't all that tall – and then takes the apprenticeship head on.

Desmond, in the meanwhile, becomes a jack of all trades street urchin, just another dirty orphan among many. He steals, he begs, he spreads rumours and carries messages, and in very short order worms his way towards the thieves' guild of Florence – which, sadly, is nowhere near as nice as the Animus let him believe.

La Volpe might be an Assassin and as such subject to certain moral codes – most of the thieves that work under him aren't.

"This is my turf, this district," one of them says, coming up to Desmond and his day's wages in a beggar's bowl. "You pay your tithes to me, or you pay in blood, you get me, boy?"

Desmond considers his options, decides it's not worth it getting into trouble with the thieves, and pays his tithes. He also very quickly learns to hide most of his ill-begotten earnings. He's not the only one doing it, either – everyone does it. They're thieves, after all, and even the big shots among thieves get thieved upon. It's practically the law.

Making his way up the ladder of thieves isn't easy – Florence is full of dedicated, ambitious and skillful thieves, and as it is, Desmond doesn't want to make too much noise of himself. He knows to keep his head down, knows to change spots – knows when to rob houses and when not. He thinks he also knows how to stay out of sight.

It's exactly that behaviour that brings him to La Volpe's attention.

"I hear you have been making absolutely no name for yourself, boy," the Assassin says, peering at him from under his hood.

"I – what?" Desmond answers.

"I keep an eye on the orphans," La Volpe says. "And I have my people do the same, it is a matter of honour and looking after our own. And you have gotten no complaints to your name. No one has anything to complain about, when to comes to you."

Desmond is even more confused now. "And that's – a bad thing?" he asks. "Should I make a nuisance of myself?"

La Volpe seems very amused, and very satisfied, which makes Desmond _very_ worried. "Walk with me – tell me of your brother."

Turns out there is no _keeping quiet_ from the Assassin Brotherhood's spymaster – and La Volpe has an eye for talent. La Volpe knows everything – the brothel they come from, the faked letter and background, the money Desmond was collecting to keep his brother in the apprenticeship, all of it.

"You are twins, correct?" La Volpe says.

Desmond shrugs, a little worried. They don't look anything like each other, and only Desmond looks anything like their new father – and that's probably only because he _always did_. He's pretty sure they inherited precisely zero genes from their new mother. The whole thing is a bit weird, and they generally don't think about it too much.

"It is admirable, to seek to support your brother. It shows dedication, selflessness, care – and self-sacrifice. Not the qualities you often see in thieves," La Volpe says. "You are both obviously very intelligent boys. Do you know how to read and write as well as your brother?"

"Er, yeah," Desmond agrees, increasingly wary.

"Very good," La Volpe says and smiles, satisfied.

And just like that, Desmond ends summarily recruited to be an apprentice of the spymaster of the Assassin Brotherhood.

"You have the luck of the devil," Clay says later, when Desmond tells him everything.

"If you could call it that," Desmond sighs. "Wanna bet on how long it will take him to figure out we're related to Ezio?"

* * *

It takes La Volpe about two months, which is not as bad as Desmond feared – he thought it would happen a lot sooner, and prepared for it too. But then la Volpe doesn't actually _do_ anything with the knowledge, nor does he inform Ezio, which is rather worrisome.

"Well, he's a thief and a spymaster," Clay comments. "He's probably hoarding blackmail material. Something to extort or bribe Ezio with – or just, you know… give him a heart attack. The guy seems to like messing with people."

"You should be his student, not me," Desmond mutters. "You two would get along like a house on fire."

"What's to say we don't already?" Clay asks and shrugs. "He's been around, snooping. Tried to recruit me, but I want some credentials before I go criminal."

"Mmhm," Desmond says and leans back. "What'll happen after that, though? Once you're done with the apprenticeship? It's not like you're actually going to be a blacksmith."

"I'm going to find Leonardo da Vinci," Clay says with a feverish sort of determination in his eyes. "And I'll get an apprenticeship under him or die trying."

Desmond blinks. Huh. "Huh," he says out loud, not entirely sure why it surprises him, but it does. It also makes him feel a bit… uneasy. "Should do it before puberty then, if it's really going to be as bad as you think. He likes pretty boys."

Clay throws him a sharp look.

Desmond shrugs, unrepentant. "What – he does," he comments, still a bit uncomfortable. "Dunno if you saw them, in Ezio's boots, but I did – they're all _very_ pretty. The guy has a type – and from what I saw, he stuck to it."

"I – did not want to know that," Clay says, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Also I thought he carried like… a torch of Olympic proportions for Ezio."

Desmond shrugs and looks away. "He did – does – but that doesn't mean he doesn't have other preferences."

"Does he –?" Clay makes a face, not quite able to continue.

"I don't think so – I mean, he definitely banged some of his students, later on, but I'm pretty sure they were all adults. Honestly don't think Ezio would like him nearly as much if he did otherwise. Leonardo is not a monster – but he appreciates pretty things," Desmond shrugs. "Weird and funky Renaissance moral values for you."

"Uhhuh," Clay muses, chewing his lip and considering him with narrow eyes. "Seventeen, are you _jealous_?"

Desmond scowls. "What – _no_," he says and makes a face. "Why would I be jealous?"

Clay's eyes narrow further. "You're totally jealous."

Desmond makes a face. You try watching Leonardo da Vinci swallow his poor broken heart around oblivious Ezio Auditore for a few decades and come away unaffected from it.

Clay considers him and then smiles. "_You're_ going to be pretty, though," he comments.

"What?"

"If things go the same way for us as they did in the future, and it looks like they will – which means you're going to be actually _hot_. Like, ridiculous, _underwear model,_ level of hot," Clay says with an unholy gleam of a terrible plan in his eyes. "We could use that. We could totally use that."

Desmond opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "Are you seriously thinking – you are, you totally are," Desmond says in horror – and a weird, terrified thrill, which is really probably inappropriate. "You're actually thinking of pimping me out to Leonardo da Vinci for an apprenticeship."

"And you're going to love it, too!" Clay decides.

* * *

And then Salvonarola happens.

"Er," Desmond says, a little dismayed. "I completely forgot that this happens. And I didn't remember it happens _this soon_."

"You don't say," Clay agrees, looking over the crowd.

They're fourteen, and Florence is at the beginning of a religious upheaval. From what Desmond can remember, it takes a couple of years at least to get into a full book-burning fervour, but Salvonarola is there now, and preaching the message of evils of earthly possessions and pleasures and how abundance of knowledge could lead you astray.

"Does he have the Apple at this point?" Clay asks.

"You're asking _me_?" Desmond asks, turning to him.

"I never saw past Venice," Clay admits, shrugging. "Why do you think Absatergo was so keen on kidnapping you? I didn't see much of Ezio with the Apple – my ancestral bastard has probably been just now born in Venice, or something. I never saw this."

"Huh," Desmond says and folds his arms, thinking. "I think he does have it," he says then. "I think Ezio lost it in Forli in… uh. 1488?"

Clay looks at him, "That was three years ago," he says flatly.

"Well, yeah," Desmond admits, wincing. He'd kind of forgotten the whole thing – they'd been so eager to see where Ezio might actually _leave_ the Apple that they'd sped past the years as fast as they could – the whole Forli and Salvonarola thing was kind of a blur. "I think Ezio gets it back in 1498? Thereabouts."

Clay blinks slowly. "We have to endure _seven years of this_?" he demands, waving a hand at the crowd of murmuring listeners, as Salvonarola preaches on.

"Hey, don't look at me," Desmond says. "I got nothing to do with the Bonfire of the Vanities."

"Oh, _that's_ what it is?"

"It's so weird to me that you don't know," Desmond says, shaking his head at him. "You usually know all about these things. Historical events and such. How do you not know this?"

"I know the ones I experienced, or which were important for Precursor or Templar related research – and this one wasn't that important," Clay says and scoffs. "History is not exactly _small,_ you know, no one can know _everything_ that ever happened, and forgive me, but the Bonfire of the Vanities just wasn't an interest for me!"

"Okay, okay, sheesh," Desmond says, holding his hands up. "Sorry."

Clay blows out a breath. "Seven years and the Bonfire of the Vanities," he mutters, giving the crowd of listeners a disgusted look. "I can't believe this."

"Mmhm," Desmond agrees. "What are we going to do?"

"What do you think?" Clay asks and waves a hand at the head of the crowd, at Savonarola himself. "We're going to stop it and get the Apple."

Desmond pauses at that and gives him a wary look. "Oh, just like that, huh?"

"Yep," Clay says and looks at him. "Or what, are you just going to sit back and let innocent people die?"

Desmond considers it and then gives up. "Yeah, I guess not," he says. "But you realise how badly this might fuck up history?"

Clay gives him a look, conveying a very clear _and I care because…? _at him.

Desmond sighs. "Yeah okay. Let's get to it, then."


	2. Chapter 2

It's still early enough in Savonarola's book and painting burning career that he doesn't have much in the way of following or guards. He's stationed in San Marco Friary, and monasteries aren't generally known for their heavy military guards.

It's almost unnerving, how easy it's too break into and pilfer from. The monks sleep while Desmond sneaks about, and should it become necessary, Clay will start a ruckus outside by setting a hay cart on fire. Not that it's needed, in the end.

Eagle Sense leads Desmond right to his prey and prize, and without so much as a noise he smothers Savonalora with a pillow and steals away with the Apple – which the guy has in a little satchel, sitting _ right beside his pillow as he sleeps. _

"No wonder he started preaching against all the little pleasures of human life," Clay says later, while they're examining the thing. "Can your even imagine how badly that would addle anyone's brains?"

"Still felt a bit much to kill him," Desmond comments. "He hadn't done anything yet."

"He stole the Apple."

"Not sure that's a capital offence – Ezio stole it too," Desmond sighs.

"He had the Apple for years, Desmond, imagine the shit he took away from it. He could still go on the art burning spree," Clay points out. "What if there were da Vinci paintings in those pyres, Desmond? Would you want Leonardo's art to burn, Desmond? You don't want to be responsible for that, do you, _ Desmond_?"

Desmond throws the Apple at his head. Clay catches it before it hits and then stops to stare at it.

"What?" Desmond asks.

"Oh, you know. Never held one of these things in my hands before. The closest I got was your memories from Masyaf library," Clay admits, peering at the Apple. "I wonder…"

Desmond experiences a single moment of pure abject horror, imagining the things Clay could probably pull from the Apple – and _ with it. _ Then he goes to wrestle the thing away from him, post haste.

* * *

Having the Apple and knowing what to do with it aren't the same thing. It's not like they can destroy it – no matter what Clay thinks – and they don't exactly have a secure vault to hide the thing in either. Giving it to La Volpe to be given to Ezio is an idea, but Desmond isn't supposed to even know about Assassins yet, never mind the Templars...

"What has he been teaching you?" Clay demands while measuring Desmond's arms.

"Spying and better thieving mostly. Blending into a crowd, hiding from guards – getting away with the crime without anyone knowing any better," Desmond shrugs. "Basic Assassin skills – without actually ever telling me that's what it is."

"But you already know how to do all that. Better than he does," Clay says, wrapping the measuring cord around his wrist.

"It's not like he knows that," Desmond answers. And to be fair, la Volpe's teaching method tended to be _ watch Desmond do the thing and then smirk smugly as if he had anything to do with the actual teaching of the thing. _ "So, the Apple? What are we going to do with it?"

"Eh," Clay answers. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I think so, Brain, but gosh," Desmond says flatly. "World's mighty big."

Clay grins delightedly and then coughs. "Well, that's an idea – but mostly I was thinking of exposing just enough engineers, scientists and general big thinkers to it, just long enough to give them some… inspiration. Speed technological advancement along a bit. Get a head start on the Industrial Revolution."

Desmond eyes him warily. "Okay, I wasn't thinking that at all. Really? That's terrifying."

"Only to the scared little small-minded people," Clay says and pats his wrist consolingly. "Don't worry your little head about it, it's going to be _ just _ fine. Also, how much are you going to grow?"

"I was six feet tall the last time, so… a bit," Desmond says and gives him a little shove. "And don't patronise me, you ass. Who do you have in mind? _ Other _ than Leonardo."

"Leonardo would be a start," Clay points out. "And he hangs around in the right circles."

Desmond just looks at him, expressionless.

"Fine," Clay sighs. "Michelangelo is around sixteen and already a complete dick – let's go and corrupt him to the ways of science."

Desmond blinks. "Michelangelo, what – the painter? Wait, you know he's a dick – have you _ met _ him?"

"Michelangelo the _ sculptor,_" Clay says pointedly. "And obviously I checked him out, he's an important historical figure – and actually, we could just kill about thirty birds with one stone and corrupt the whole Platonic Academy."

"The _ what_?!"

* * *

So the Medici apparently have an academy for up and coming thinkers and artists – the Neoplatonic Florentine Academy. The things you miss when your best source of information spends the majority of his time killing people. 

"And whoring," Clay points out.

"You get paid for that – pretty sure Ezio's the one doing the paying most of the time," Desmond comments.

"The fact that he has to pay is so weird," Clay mutters. "Guy with game like that, and he has to pay for sex – shameful, just shameful. Aren't you embarrassed?"

"Are you trying to shame me for Ezio? He's your ancestor too – and your _ dad,"_ Desmond says, to which Clay scoffs. "Besides, Ezio's a patron, through and through – he doesn't _ have to, _ he _ wants to. _ Because he appreciates good professional standards."

Clay makes a face. "And shows it by giving money."

"It's what professionalism is all about – being paid for services rendered."

They have this discussion while watching from the side as Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni gets into a fistfight with his fellow students in the yard of the academy.

"So what are we going to do – walk up to them, being all, _ Hey kids, would you like some science?_" Desmond asks wryly.

"It's the hot new drug, the Scientific Method. Ten out of ten clerical officials disapprove," Clay muses. "But nah, better sneak into their dorms at night and give them some interesting dreams, see where that gets us. Look at the hair on those kids, damn."

"It's the style," Desmond agrees. It's a lot of hair – most of it curled.

"You should grow out your hair. I bet Leonardo would _ love _ long hair."

Desmond sighs. It's probably true – most of Leonardo's students had hair at least down to their shoulders. As does the man himself. "Actually, now that you mention it – why do you want an apprenticeship? Why not aim for a school, like these kids? This place looks right up your alley."

Clay scowls, going instantly gloomy. "Yeah, because going to a school in times of corporal punishment when your have ADHD and learning disabilities seems like a _ wonderful _ idea."

Desmond blinks with surprise. "Oh," he says. "Didn't know you had that."

Clay shrugs. "Wouldn't have gotten in anyway, with our background and my fingerpainting skills. You need a bit more than funky future knowledge here."

"Ah," Desmond says. Well, that explains why Clay wants to corrupt the whole lot, then. Pure academic spite. "Right, let's plan our science-spreading breaking and entering, then."

* * *

A month later Michelangelo finishes a fresco, which would become pretty famous in later years. The fresco depicts the scene of the god Pan escorting a delicate – but muscular – Muse as they spread inspiration and genius over the heads of boys sleeping on their bunks in what is obviously the Platonic Academy dormitory. It would be heralded as the first work produced by the famous Genius Class of the academy.

Clay laughs himself sick, seeing it. "Oh my god, he depicted you as Pan! That's so perfect."

"Yeah, and he gave you tits," Desmond snorts. "Congratulations, Michelangelo thinks you're a chick."

"Psh, Michelangelo doesn't even know I exist – he just got some subconscious impression, a weird image in a dream, that's all. And all muses were female anyway, so…"

"Uh-huh," Desmond agrees. He's pretty sure Michelangelo had actually woken up a bit while they held the Apple over another boy, but whatever. "That's the ugliest, most butch muse ever."

"Shut up, hoofboy."

Desmond smiles – Clay looks actually a bit embarrassed in that _ aww shucks, I'm flattered _ way. It's nice.

Of course the academy students aren't the only ones they go after. There are already working artists, engineers, architects and humanists working about the city, whom they go about their way to corrupt to the light of _ forbidden knowledge._ It's all fun and games at first, seeing what new ideas people came up with afterwards, what tools they hurriedly came up with to answer the sudden call of _ inspiration _they were overcome by. There's a lot of interesting new art, and someone puts springs on a cart for shock absorption.

Then one of them goes, takes the concept of a thrown bomb, and invents a grenade launcher.

"Well," Clay says after. "It was going to happen eventually?"

Desmond sighs and begins a mental doomsday clock.

* * *

Of course there are consequences. Florence is taken over by a boom of new inventions, which leads to weird economic and societal side effects, the aftereffects of which Desmond doesn't even dare to predict. This leads to pushback from the church and the traditionalists – though it's hard to argue that cranked water pump is both more useful and safer than the traditional way of drawing water, people aren't so sanguine about the suddenly invented new colours and chemicals, some of which Desmond suspects might eventually lead to photography.

"What," Clay asks when Desmond gives him the stink eye. "They _ were _ going to be invented eventually – I just gave the right people the push in the right direction."

"Yeah, I'm going to take the Apple away from you now. Your meddling is going to end up with people burned at the stake."

"You're the one to speak – you taught that one doctor _ germ theory _!"

"He was going to bleed that kid to death for having a cold!"

While they do this, the Assassins take interest in Florence, more so than they had since the death of the Pazzi. Which, really, Desmond should've expected. Ezio had had the Apple long enough for a basic examination, and Leonardo had probably figured out that _ the fruit of forbidden knowledge _ actually meant something. So, when one single city is suddenly overtaken by a mass wave of innovation… it's noticed.

La Volpe begins investigating the newly inspired. Machiavelli arrives in the city after having been who knows where and gets involved in local politics. Mario is seen, _ appreciating _ art in a showing and boasting the art gallery he had in his grand villa, and now he's looking for new works to add to his collection. Subtle. And then the last nail in the coffin.

Tellingly, even Clay feels it coming, lifting his head and asking, "Did something just happen?"

Yeah.

In the year 1492, when they're fifteen, Ezio Auditore returns to Florence.

* * *

La Volpe is an _ asshole._

"Oh, don't mind him," he says, waving a hand in Desmond's direction, while the Assassins file into his room. "He is just a student of mine – perfectly discreet."

"A student, La Volpe?" Ezio asks, interested. "I didn't take you for a teacher."

"With the movement of the Spaniard in the Vatican, the time may come when I will have to move to Roma," the spymaster says demurely, while looking between Ezio and Desmond with a, well, _ foxlike _ gleam in his eyes. "The sooner I train a replacement here in Florence, the better."

_ Son of a bitch,_ Desmond thinks incredulously.

"Isn't he a bit young?" Ezio wonders.

"Machiavelli begun his training younger," La Volpe says dismissively. "And I have a good feeling about this one – he shows… potential."

"Well, if you trust him, La Volpe, we will do the same," Mario says, dismissing the matter. "Now where _ is _ Machiavelli?"

"On his way – he should be here soon…"

The men move about to take seats to wait. Paola in the meanwhile has caught on – she narrows her eyes at La Volpe's obvious smugness and looks at Desmond closely. Her eyes narrow further with suspicion.

Desmond would like to develop invisibility now, please. Ezio is in his early thirties, in the peak condition – past stabbings aside. He's even wearing the Armour of Altaïr already and everything. Desmond, in the meanwhile, is at the peak of fucking puberty, all gangly and weird, with stupid floppy hair sticking everywhere because Clay is really making him grow it out. He looks like a bridge troll, probably. So maybe the similarities aren't that obvious? Maybe?

He's forced to sit through the whole meeting of Assassins discussing the _ "Source of Divine Inspiration," _ and _ "Whether the Templars could be behind it." _

"There had been some movement on that score," Machiavelli says. "If the Spaniard isn't yet investigating the flood of innovation in Florence, he will soon begin. If we can figure out the origins of it, so can he."

"In that case, it is better that we find the Apple and whoever is using it first," Ezio says. "Is there any clue as to who it could be?"

"No," La Volpe says, and Desmond has to physically constrain himself from signing in relief. "But the wave began in the Neoplatonic Florentine Academy, with the students there – if anyone knows anything, it is a good place to begin."

Desmond is going to kill Clay.

* * *

"Poor baby, did you get scared by daddy?"

"Don't ever speak those words to me in that order again," Desmond groans. "I almost shat myself when Ezio arrived. La Volpe is a _ dick._"

Clay, the unsympathetic bastard, laughs. 

Desmond glares at him. "Ezio is investigating what we did, half of the Assassins are here, and Templars are on their way, if they aren't in the city already, and they're all looking for the Apple," he says. "And Ezio has Eagle Vision, you ass. He's going to find us!"

"Not if we leave," Clay says, patting his shoulder consolingly.

"What?"

Clay shrugs. "We've set things in motion here – it's a good time to move on. How does Venice sound to you?"

"Are you kidding me? What about your apprenticeship?"

"I've learned about all that idiot had to teach me, and it's enough for a credit or two. Any more and I'm just wasting my time – honestly, I've been wasting my time here for a couple of years now, but then we got the Apple and that made things interesting," Clay says and his eyes shine with that unholy gleam again. "So, let's move on – head to Venice. I'll find a glass blower to apprentice under and we repeat the process."

"... Of subjecting more people to the drug of Scientific Method," Desmond guesses.

"Yep, obviously," Clay says. "No one will suspect a thing."

"Uh-huh. And what about your planned apprenticeship with Leonardo?"

"Eh, it's too early. You're not pretty enough for pimping out yet – let's give it four more years at least."

Desmond kicks him fondly on the shin. Clay's waiting until he's modern-day-legal. Aww. "You asshole. Do you have any idea how much it will cost to move to Venice?"

"Good thing you're apprenticed under a master thief – shouldn't be a problem for you to gather the funds."

Desmond gives him another kick.

* * *

No one will suspect anything, his ass.

"Clay wants to be a glassblower," Desmond shrugs. "He's very keen on learning specifically Venetian glass blowing, so…"

"Well, I can't say I'm not sad to see you go," La Volpe said with suspicion only thinly veiled behind veneer of sympathy. "I did have great hopes for you. I hope it wasn't the meeting the other day that made up your mind – it wasn't my intention to startle you."

Desmond gives him an unimpressed look. "Noo, it was fiine," he says and shrugs. "It's whatever. Clay wants to move, so we're moving – nothing else to it." The joys of being viewed as being under his brother's heel – he can just blame everything on Clay and it's perfectly believable.

"Hmm," La Volpe considers him and then nods. "If you're sure, it's just as well. Things are about to get more hectic in Florence. Perhaps it's for the better…"

Desmond tries not to react to that – because yeah, sure.

"Well," La Volpe says, decision made. "I have an associate in Venice – I will write to him to expect you, he will help your get situated and continue your training."

Antonio, he means. "I was actually thinking I might try for something else," Desmond admits, slowly. Clay's changing professions, he might as well. "I was thinking I should try and learn to entertain."

La Volpe arches his brows. "As a… performer?" he asks slowly.

"Yeah. Like juggling and stuff. What they do with fire. Acrobatics. That sort of thing."

"Hmm. I will have my associate find a performer in need of a good student," la Volpe muses. "Not a bad idea, to learn to entertain – it will open your many doors and help you fend off future suspicion."

"Uh-huh," Desmond agrees. "That's exactly it, yep." Mostly he's just getting kind of sick stealing from people.

And avoiding suspicion with a brother like Clay. Hah.

* * *

Someone tells _ something _ to Ezio before they leave, because the Assassin is spying on them as they pack Clay's things to go. It's not very overt – Ezio crouches on the rooftop and just looms as Desmond pretends not to notice him and Clay figures out which of his former master's tools he dares to steal.

Desmond shares a look with Clay and wonders how they look. Him with his messy hair and thief's ragged clothing, Clay with forge burns on his arms and adolescence finally showing its true, mostly red colours on his face. While Clay isn't as much of a disaster as he led Desmond to believe, the acne is notable and it's not pretty. Neither of them is, right now.

Not very impressive – not something most people would like to see in their children, really. And Ezio, Desmond recalls, emerged from his teenage years with flying colours – if he had any issues with hormones, Desmond definitely didn't see it. Aside from the general adolescent horniness, maybe.

Ezio doesn't stick around for long – he spies after them for a while and then leaves, not making contact.

"Weird," Desmond comments.

"Definitely weird," Clay agrees. "You wanna go see what's up? Before we leave, you know."

Desmond does indeed, and Desmond goes – carefully following Ezio through the city and finally to La Rosa Colta, where he is staying with Mario, apparently. Desmond finds his way on the roof and then concentrates into the Eagle Sense until he can hear Ezio.

Except Ezio doesn't say anything. He greets Mario and Paola, says, "I will turn in early and begin my search first thing in the morning," and then he does just that, retiring with a bottle to an empty bed as he says nothing at all.

Feeling a bit like a heel, Desmond goes back to Clay. Not that there is a reason to feel guilty, Ezio's the one sowing his wild oats every which way, it's his own fault for fathering bastards. Desmond and Clay didn't ask for this.

Still…

"Let's just go," Desmond says. "Before things get more complicated."

Clay looks like he wants to ask, but at the sight of Desmond's expression, he just nods. So they get on their rather rickety cart, all false documents in order, and head for the gates of Florence.

"Here's something to cheer you up," Clay says and hands him something wrapped in linen. "Took me a bit of fiddling, and I know it's not as pretty as something Leonardo da Vinci made, but…"

It's a hidden blade. Two of them, actually – and both are fully customised. The left one has the pistol addition – with a revolver, because Clay is an overachiever. The left is – different.

"It launches small hollow blades. Phantom blade they used to call it during the French Revolution. You can poison the blades however you like – like sleeping draughts or berserk poisons, that kind of thing," Clay says and shrugs, embarrassed. "Figured it'd be something you could just use."

"Aww, Clay," Desmond says and nudges his side. "I love them. Thanks. But couldn't you use them too? You're as much an Assassin as I am."

"Are you kidding me – of course I made a set for myself too, I made it first," Clay scoffs. "You think I'd make one just for you – bah. You're so self-centred, Seventeen."

Desmond smiles brightly and straps the blades on. "So, that's why you wanted to do blacksmithing," he says. "But why glassblowing?"

"Isn't it obvious? For lenses. How else am I going to make telescopes and microscopes?"

And then they're at the gates, and just like that, they leave Florence behind, taking with them the Apple of Eden and leaving behind a bunch of very confused Assassins and Templars to figure out what the hell they'd done with it.


	3. Chapter 3

For a few years they lie relatively low in Venice. Clay actually wants to get his apprenticeship somewhat done this time – proper lens-making skills are _that_ important – so they don't use the Apple, they don't make noise about themselves, they're relatively speaking just a pair of good boys, going about their lives, trying to manage.

Well, Clay is. Desmond learns to be a clown. Basically. He got his apprenticeship – of sorts – with some of the performers of Venice, one of the more famous carnival troupes. They don't really use that word yet, though, _clown,_ that is. But he learns to juggle, to make tricks, perform some acrobatics, to hassle people for money and participation, and occasionally he's even trusted with a baton. It's very exciting.

"And so is that getup," Clay says, plucking at Desmond's doublet. "You look ridiculous."

"One must suffer for art," Desmond shrugs and looks at his clothes. Basically classic jester gear. "I'm hoping to one day get it in red and white. Assassin's colours, you know."

Clay snorts.

Clay, in the meanwhile, is adding to forge burns with glass burns while learning how to make nice proper Venetian glass. Or, he's learning to blow into a pipe, anyway, and how to stoke kilns. Apparently, like with blacksmithing, everything starts with the basic chores. The fact that Clay actually has the patience to go through it _again_ is almost surprising.

"I want to get it right," Clay says. "I need the credit of knowing how to make it right."

"And then what, you start making lenses, selling telescopes?" Desmond asks. "Not a career I imagined for you."

"No – then I will _invent_ them. They don't exist yet, Desmond," Clay says.

"… not even spyglasses?"

"Nope, not until the 17th century. Anyway, I will probably wait until the apprenticeship under Leonardo for that – but I need to be able to show people I know _how,_ so that when I do make it, it doesn't come across as, you know…" Clay makes a haphazard motion with his hand, "something the Devil made me do."

And that's pretty much how they spend the first couple of years in Venice – trying not to look like the devil made them do it.

Of course it doesn't last. But they try.

* * *

In Florence, the Innovative Revolution, or whatever it would end up being called, is still going. Though the first initial burst of weird inspiration and inventions has passed, it left lasting marks on local sciences, and those marks spread. They're still in little unconnected pieces – an idea for construction method here, a concept for a winch there, a hand crank there… but they're pieces of a larger whole, which is starting to change things. One small thing after another.

You wouldn't _think_ that a proper ball bearing would change things – but then you see a thing which kind of looks like a bicycle on the streets of Venice. And it just makes you think.

"If we, you know… put our minds to it," Desmond comments while toying with a lute – one of the things he had to learn as an entertainer was music, and the violin just wasn't for him. "Do you think we could steer people away from fossil fuels before they start using them?"

"You world-saving tree hugger," Clay says. "Maybe, but also, not without a miracle. There's like a whole period between realising engines are a thing that's possible and then electronics – and windmills aren't good at powering locomotives."

"But electrical engines," Desmond says plucking at the strings. "Wasn't the very first car like electronic?"

"Said like you actually know a thing about electrical engines," Clay huffs. "Okay, first of all you need to invent a battery that holds enough charge for it to be used, and this is the time before people even know electricity is a _thing_. Controlled explosions just make more sense to people."

Desmond looks at him dubiously. "As if you couldn't make a battery. Or nudge people to the way of one. Be honest – you just like muscle cars."

"You got caught by Abstergo for buying a goddamn motorcycle!" Clay says, throwing his hands up. "You got no leg to stand on."

Desmond shrugs because, yeah, fair. "Still," he says. "Climate change sucks."

"Yeah," Clay says, scratching his scalp and then sighing. "I mean – of course someone is going to figure out engines. I guess we could sneak batteries in there too, nudge people to that direction earlier."

"Thanks, bro," Desmond says and thrums his fingers over the strings.

"I bet Leonardo could figure out windmills and engines, if we gave him a nudge…"

"No," Desmond says firmly.

"Come on, he already did things with flight and wings, he invented first thornicopters - it would be a perfect fit!" Clay says and leans in. "At this rate, Leonardo is going to be left behind when everyone else is being boosted by the Apple - you wouldn't want Leonardo overshadowed, would you, Desmond - you wouldn't want him forgotten while all these other inventors are remembered -"

"We are not using the Apple of Eden on Leonardo," Desmond says. "You can forget it."

Clay blows out an annoyed breath. "Considering that you two haven't even met, haven't even been in the _same city_ together, your favouritism is disturbing."

Desmond gives him a flat look and strums his fingers over the lute strings. "No," he says, staring Clay down. "You are not touching Leonardo's mind, it's just not going to happen."

Clay folds his arms and harrumphs. "You are blind to the possibilities here."

"Uh-huh," Desmond says. "Still not happening." There's a moment of staring contest, so Desmond looks Clay dead in the eye, strums the lute again, and says, utterly flat, "Anyway, here's Wonderwall."

Clay ends up chasing Desmond out of the house with a broom, but Desmond totally wins that one.

* * *

Of course Desmond still has some dealings with the Assassins. Antonio had taken him under his wing as a favour to the "esteemed master la Volpe" and Desmond's pretty sure Paola and Theodora talk, because the Madame of La Rosa della Virtù comes around every now and then on a perfectly average walk to watch Desmond' troupe practice, fostering him with pursed lips and thoughtful expressions.

"They check me out too," Clay tells him when Desmond mentions it. "Pretty sure the word's gone around about our parentage, such as it is."

It's fine at first - the Assassins watch, but they don't intervene. They just keep an eye on them, probably for Ezio's sake. Then Desmond and Clay hit seventeen, and the Assassins seem to collectively decide that enough waiting - time to start the training.

"I have errands for someone," Antonio suggests - and gives a glare to everyone who volunteers who isn't Desmond.

"The girls in my house are in sad need of music," Theodora purrs without giving a glance to the other, better performers. "Perhaps you could provide…"

It's not particularly subtle, but it's not like they're trying to be. Still…

"Make them stop, I'm too busy to kill people for them," Clay says while grinding a little shard of glass on a metal wheel. "You go play tricks for them."

Desmond considers the work he's doing - grinding lenses for microscopes, as it happens - and hums. "How's it coming along anyway?"

"Almost done, I just need to figure out the optimal way to grind the lenses," Clay says, peering at the sand he has on the wheel. "Almost there."

"So we got… light-sensitive chemicals being invented in Florence, you're making lenses," Desmond comments. "How long until cameras and photographs?"

Clay considers it. "Twenty, fifty years at most," he says. "Unless we throw the Apple at someone. Why?"

"Just wondering," Desmond hums. Photography had made realistic painting kind of a thing of the past, hadn't it? "Guess I will go play with the Assassins. Don't invent any lasers of doom while I'm gone."

"No promises," Clay says and continues grinding.

* * *

It's kind of funny, but both Antonio and Theodora try to teach Desmond _style_ amidst the Assassin skills. Their styles, however, are completely different.

Antonio is flamboyant and shameless, Theodora refined and demure. Now that Desmond is finally approaching the prophesied state of prettiness - and probably thanks to his parentage - they're both of the mind that he should take advantage of his looks.

"Open your doublet, flash a little chest - it will make ladies swoon and you can take their purses at your pleasure!" Antonio says enthusiastically.

"Let us see if we can take that hair of yours, make something refined out of it," Theodora hums. "Even men are more likely to trust a well groomed man."

Antonio gets Desmond a ridiculous set of skin tight jester's clothes in garish colours - the bulge they give him is not in any way flattering, except apparently it is, because _Renaissance_. Theodora figures out how to tame Desmond's hair into artistic curls, which makes him look all that much worse in the get up. Between them, Desmond feels a bit like a peacock - all primped and preened.

Clay considers him for a long moment while Desmond spins around to show it off. "Yeah, I don't think I can in good consciousness call you my brother anymore. Please preemptively disinherit yourself and pretend you've never even met me. It will be best for everyone."

Desmond sighs. "I brought booze," he says.

"... to soak that monstrosity in and burn it off the face of the planet? I mean, I know you're against global warming, but…"

"I guess I'll drink it myself then," Desmond muses and goes to do just that, Clay quickly scrambling after him.

They end up very drunk, the jester gear all gets burned, and the next day Desmond had the vague impression that somewhere during the night he decided he should do fire breathing - because alcohol and themes and _irony_ \- and Clay promised to build him a still. So it's all good in the end.

Aside from Desmond's hair, which is still a mess and would _remain_ a mess, because he is not putting on hair rolls again, no damn way.

* * *

In celebration of their eighteenth birthday, Desmond and Clay go about and corrupt the entire Venetian School of Art. Of course it's not an actually physical school like the Platonic Academy, it's more a collection of artists, who are able to affirm an art style which would eventually be called the Venetian School of Art, but anyway. They corrupt them to the ways of science, starting with the Bellinis and working their way through all the artists they associate with and all the students they have.

And then they do the same to the local architects, craftspeople, scholars, humanist thinkers and so forth, of course, but artists are easy to start with.

"That's a good night's work," Clay comments, as they sit on a rooftop and listen to overly enthusiastic would-be-geniuses shouting _eureka!_ all over the town.

"Gonna get the Assassins on our asses again," Desmond comments while pouring Clay a glass of moonshine.

"Yeah, but now we're about ready for them, and we've messed up with scientific advancement enough to utterly fuck up history," Clay comments, accepting the glass. "And the universe hasn't yet collapsed in a paradox. So we're off to a good start, even if we lose the Apple now."

"I'll drink to that," Desmond says and they click their glasses together. 

"Now go and seduce Leonardo da Vinci for me," Clay says then. "Get me that apprenticeship, make me proud."

* * *

Desmond doesn't really want to, not just for Clay's sake. It was a fun idea, an insider joke of sorts, when they were still younger and there was no way it would actually happen. Now he's eighteen, almost his full height and according to Clay _at full pretty,_ and it's actually maybe possible. And it kinda just makes him feel wrong, to go after Leonardo like that, just so that Clay can have his dream apprenticeship. Like, Desmond gets why he wants it, with Leonardo Clay can change the future once and for all, but…

Desmond is not so chill about the multileveled dishonesty of it anymore.

And of course because he had doubts, Fate and Destiny and Gods of Fucking With Desmond take the decision from his hands - because following the Night Of Epiphanies, as it ends up being called, it's not the Assassins who storm the city.

It's the architects, the artists, the builders, the humanist scholars and tinkerers - and of course, the engineers. The city is_ flooded_ with the brightest - and also not so bright - thinkers and inventors, all looking to get inspired.

And Leonardo is the first among them.

"So yeah, turns out when there's an event of mass inspiration that changes the way the world is understood... it's noticed. So when it happens again..." Clay shrugs. "What can I say. People want that inspiration juice."

"What do they think it is?" Desmond asks dubiously.

Clay shrugs. "Blessing from the God or saints or whatever probably. People still believe in miracles, you know. They build a whole new church in Florence, dedicating it to the Divine Inspiration. And it's not like anyone who knows better will tell them otherwise."

Leonardo would know better. He'd know exactly what was causing it and he'd be looking for the cause. And eventually, if he didn't figure it out, Ezio would come, and between them it would become obvious, wouldn't it? 

"Hmm," Desmond hums. "I'm going to go talk to Leonardo."

"Hell yeah, go get it, I'm rooting for you," Clay says, waving imaginary pompoms. "Get that da Vinci dick."

He wouldn't be so happy if he knew what Desmond actually _does_ talk to the guy about.

"Yes?" Leonardo asks, looking up from the map he'd making - where he is, apparently, marking down everyone who had Divine Inspiration and where they had it.

"Hi," Desmond says, lifting a hand. "My name is Desmond - my brother Clay wants me to seduce you into giving him an apprenticeship."

Leonardo lowers the map slowly, his eyes widening. "I'm - sorry?" he asks in a slightly higher voice.

"Also we're related to Ezio, from the future, and we have the Apple of Eden," Desmond adds. "And have been using it to advance scientific knowledge in Florence and now here, mostly to spite Those That Came Before."

The map slips from Leonardo's fingers.

"Yeah," Desmond says, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Wanna go on a walk with me?"

* * *

They go on a walk. Desmond tells Leonardo everything, taking a weird sort of vindication from it. Clay might be the one who's all gung-ho about fucking up the future, but Desmond can make some massive changes too - and his way is hell of a lot nicer than manipulating people in their sleep, too.

He tells Leonardo when he was born and where and whatever it led to. He talks about the Precursors and the Pieces of Eden and how fighting over them and hiding them ultimately messes everything up. He tells him about the Sun and the Superflare and the Grand Temple - about Clay's and his deaths, one in the hands of Templars and other in service of the world. He tells him about the Eye and how Desmond's regrets probably made the whole reincarnation in the past thing possible. He tells him what they've been doing since - their studies and otherwise.

"We got the Apple in 1491 from Savonarola - the nine-fingered monk Ezio saw, he was going to use it to take over Florence. Anyway, we stopped that and then Clay decided we needed to use the Apple to inspire people and fast forward technological advancement," Desmond finishes. "Which we did."

Leonardo has gone from disbelieving to pale to thoughtful, and now gives him a considering look as they stop over one of the many canals of Venice. "And Clay desires an apprenticeship? Why - it doesn't sound like he needs it."

"You're already by yourself inventing things that will advance science," Desmond shrugs. "He wants to enable that and then reap the benefits when he starts launching his inventions into the world - apprenticeship under your will give him credibility he's not going to get as easily any other way."

"I see," Leonardo murmurs, considering him. It's hard to tell if he buys any of it, but he's definitely intrigued. "I believe I would like to meet Clay - but first. Where is the Apple?"

"Hidden," Desmond says and gives him an apologetic look. "With this many scientific minds in Venice, we're not giving it up just yet. Sorry."

"Considering what happened in Florence, I am not certain I would even like you to," Leonardo murmurs. "Well. Later then. But you know I will tell all this to Ezio. I can't in good conscience keep it from him.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. "I figured."

Leonardo nods. "I believe I would like to meet this Clay now."

* * *

All the shit Clay gave him over the years, and then it turns out meeting Leonardo turns the guy speechless and dumb while Leonardo pokes through his work and sketches with great interest.

"Desmond, what the fuck?" Clay demands quietly.

"You wanted an apprenticeship," Desmond shrugs. "So I got you an interview."

"By just telling him everything?!"

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

Clay makes a haphazard _are you kidding me_ sort of motion. Unrepentant, Desmond just shrugs.

"This is all very fascinating," Leonardo says, peering through one of Clay's lenses. "I've used such things before, but rarely you see ones with such clarity. Will you tell me the process of making them?"

Clay's mouth works silently for a moment and then he says, almost sullenly, "Yeah, if you make me your apprentice, I will."

"Well, that's all but decided," Leonardo says, looking at him. "Seeing all this, I couldn't possibly let you go to someone else. Now come, explain to me your process - you have studied glassblowing, yes?"

Desmond watches with a little smile while Clay marches over, a picture of determination and embarrassed eagerness, as he begins selling his skills and knowledge to his new master. Underneath all the jabs and sarcasm, it turns out Clay hid his true nature of a damn _fanboy_. It's almost cute.

Desmond slips away from the workshop, unnoticed, as they begin talking of telescopes, leaving them to it.

* * *

Watching Leonardo and Clay work is fun, but it's not something Desmond can really take part in – though he can get the science in some cases better than Leonardo, having that future base of knowledge, he doesn't have that mad-genius-spark they do. So it's hard to keep up with them – and there is only so much fetching and carrying he's willing to do for them, as cute as they are.

Well, as cute as Leonardo is. Clay's long past his cherubic angel stage – he just looks like a guy these days. Probably not as bad as he thought he would, what with food not being inundated with sugars and fats here, but still. Everyday normal average guy.

"Thanks, asshole, just tell me what you really think," Clay mutters.

"Someone's gotta keep your feet on the ground," Desmond says sweetly. "While you're working on reaching the skies and all that."

"Go spout your stupid poetry at Leonardo, I don't care."

Desmond would love to, except Leonardo gets all _leery_ around him. Opening with _hi, my brother wants me to seduce you_ was probably not the best way to go. Desmond is pretty sure the guy gives him some sideways looks every now and then, but they might be just pure suspicion. Either way, doesn't look like anything much will happen there. Maybe not ever.

Bummer. Gotta settle on watching them change history.

Except even that eventually gets boring, so, after making sure Clay isn't about to eat Leonardo alive – or use the Apple on him – Desmond goes back to the performer troupe and picks up his batons again. He's getting pretty good at them – to the point where he's thinking it might be time to change professions again. Playing with fire is fun, but not what he wants to do for the rest of his life. Rest of his _new_ life anyway.

Except he has no idea what he _does_ want to do with his life.

Well, what else is new.

* * *

Desmond is practicing playing with fire when Ezio arrives in Venice, about a week after they met Leonardo. Desmond can feel him coming and weighs the options of whether to go or wait and decides to err on the side of _I am bored, let's see what's up._ So he goes to the pier, idly whirling an unlit torch while waiting for the ship to make landfall.

Assassin privileges, you gotta love them – Ezio Auditore _never_ stayed in quarantine. Well, Clay and Desmond hadn't either, when they arrived. Better things to do than sit around forty days on a ship.

Ezio must feel him too, because the moment his boots hit the pier, he looks to the pole where Desmond is sitting, waiting for him. Desmond waves at him with the baton and, without any visible hesitation, Ezio walks over.

Desmond can sort of _sixth sense_ the way he's bracing himself, though. He knows the way Ezio is holding his shoulders, how he's walking – it's his _it's a shit job, but someone's gotta do it_ strut. Most of Ezio's walks are struts really.

"You must be Desmond," the Assassin says.

"Mm-hmm. And you're Ezio," Desmond says, saluting him with the baton. "Figured I'd make this easier for us and just get it over with. It's nice to meet you properly."

Ezio considers him from under the hood. It's been four years, and they're closer to each other in looks now, with Desmond being about Ezio's height. The long hair helps too – even if Desmond can't rock a ponytail, it always ends up in a mess. He's more of a man-bun sort of guy, really.

"So you know," Ezio says slowly

"We've always known," Desmond agrees and hops down to the pier. "I guess you want the Apple back?"

"Hmm," Ezio answers, considering him, his eyes shadowed. "You've had much fun with it," he comments. "Have you hurt people with it?"

"No," Desmond promises. Not in this time, anyway – that's been actually kind of nice, using the Apple for good, and fuck what Juno wanted.

Ezio narrows his eyes. "I believe you," he says and smiles, motioning towards the city and away from the pier. "Can you show me to Leonardo's workshop? I would like to meet your brother as well."

"Right, of course."

"And as we walk… I know it is late, but please, tell me of yourself."

Oh no, Desmond thinks, his heart skipping a beat.

* * *

"Oh, no," Clay says, backing away quickly. "You are not _parenting_ me, I do not need a father, I am a grown ass man, there is no need for father figures here, thank you. You've been absent all our lives, and it's been just fine that way."

Ezio looks in part relieved and in part disappointed. "Had I known earlier in life, I would not have been absent."

"Yeah, yeah, and later there were extenuating circumstances, I get you, but I don't need a father. Desmond does not need a father, we're just fine –"

"I could use a father," Desmond says, just to wind Clay up. "My original one sucked, Ezio is a definite step up."

The look Clay gives him is full of _betrayal_.

"Besides," Desmond says, barrelling right on. "Extended family would be nice to have. We could have a grandmother. Never had a grandmother before. Or an aunt! I would love to have an aunt. And granduncle, how nice is that?"

Clay gives him a desperate look. "I know your life is very sad, Desmond, and I am so sorry your life is very tragic, but _come on…_"

Leonardo chuckles in the background and offers a sympathetic smile to Ezio. "Yes, they are always like that," he says. "And sometimes they are worse. You would not believe how Desmond introduced himself to me."

"Oh?" Ezio asks warily, folding his arms.

"And Monteriggioni, Clay," Desmond wheedles. "_Monteriggioni_! Think about it. We could work without having to fear being burned at the stake or chased out as heretics… it would be nice, and it would be _Monteriggioni_. It'd be great."

"Okay, I am thinking about it, thinking, thinking – yep, it's on fire, it's tragic, everyone gets traumas," Clay says, giving him a look. "Are you _serious_ about this?"

Desmond shrugs and casts a look at Ezio. Kind of, yeah. Actually, the more he thinks about it, the more he wants it. Not, like, forever, but he wants to see Monteriggioni again. Better yet, he wants to stop it being burned, because that sucked. He put _money_ into that place. Or Ezio did. Either way. Personal ties.

Also he is imagining the face Claudia would make upon meeting Clay, and it's _hilarious_. And hah, you could almost imagine that Clay was named after Claudia, that's even better.

Clay squints suspiciously at him and then throws his hands in the air. "Fine, fine! I draw a line being officially recognised as an Auditore – I _do not_ want to be known as an Assassin's relative."

"Oh," Desmond says, demurely. "Um. About that."

"Not _you,_ I don't mean _you_," Clay says dismissively and points a finger at Ezio. "You are not recognizing us officially, we are _not_ becoming officially part of the Auditore family, forget it. I have history books to get into, and I am not getting there with your name."

Ezio holds up his hands in surrender. "I understand," he says, sounding bewildered.

"I doesn't even work like that," Desmond mutters. "You can't give your last name to your bastard, not unless you can, like… fake records."

"Shush it," Clay says at him gloomily.

Desmond smiles to him beatifically. "Love you, Clay."

"Ugh," Clay answers and turns back to his lenses.

Behind them, Leonardo pats Ezio's shoulder soothingly. "It's not so bad once you get used to them," he says. "And they're not boring. They're definitely not boring."

* * *

There's still a bunch of stuff to do. Well, a bunch of stuff Clay wants to do and Desmond wants to see happen. Desmond doesn't so much want stuff for himself as he wants to stop certain other stuff from happening. Mario, Monteriggioni, that sort of thing. And somewhere along the way there's Minerva and her little prophecy, that would need to be figured out eventually. Well, later, there's still years of time until then.

First things first. There is _one_ thing Desmond wants.

Quietly Desmond sidles up to a doorway, to watch Leonardo packing his things away for transport. The artist hasn't noticed him yet, and for a moment Desmond just watches him, idly flipping the paper in his hands. Leonardo is humming to himself. He has a nice voice.

Idly, Desmond starts folding the letter, in and over and under… "So," he says, watching with interest as the artist's shoulders clench. "I didn't want to seduce you into giving Clay his apprenticeship, because that would've been wrong and weird."

"I'm sorry?" the artist says feebly, looking at him over his shoulder.

Desmond smiles at the paper he's folding, finishing by folding the sides in. "But I am totally going to try and seduce you," he says, and throws the paper plane at Leonardo, who catches it automatically, his eyes wide. "Just a fair warning."

He leaves Leonardo to read what he wrote on the paper and grins when he hears the artist let out an incredulous noise. Desmond might not have Ezio's game or Clays intelligence, but he does have a history of bartending – and a hell of a lot of bad pickup lines under his belt.

It's a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that.
> 
> What Desmond wrote: "I might not go down in history, but i'll go down on you."   


**Author's Note:**

> Also imagine if you will, Ezio and Leonardo talking not much after Ezio saw Desmond and Clay the first time back in Florence, complaining how his kids both look like weird little goblin creatures and Leonardo getting this mental image to his head about what Clay and Desmond actually look like.
> 
> And then here is Desmond, distinctively not goblin looking fire eater. Who has possibly taken up clothing fitting of the profession. And maybe doesn't have sleeves because sleeves catching on fire is not a good look for fire eating. lol.


End file.
